


Draco Malfoy Can't Stand Children

by SparklyGlitterDeath



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Abusive Dursleys, Confused Draco, De-Aged!Harry, Draco and Harry bond, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Drarry, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Enemies, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Kid Fic, Kid Harry, M/M, Mild Language, No kid Harry/Draco, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Potions Accident, Slow Burn, draco's a jerk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2018-09-08 19:53:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8858644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparklyGlitterDeath/pseuds/SparklyGlitterDeath
Summary: Draco's not fond of children or Potter. When plays what's supposed to be an innocent prank (honestly, no deaths required), he's stuck with both. Combined. What do you get when you mix an eight-year-old Harry, an unobservant Draco and suspicion on both sides together? Spilled secrets and violently shattered perceptions, of course. Enjoy.





	1. Draco Malfoy Can't Stand Potter

Draco snickered as he glanced at Potter in what was (hopefully) an unnoticeable manner. Certainly, the mop-headed teen didn't need any help utterly destroying his potion, but what were arch-enemies for? And yes, Draco could call Potter his arch-enemy. Who else could take the position after Voldemort's death?  
  
He shifted impatiently in his seat. Pansy gave him an odd look, quickly replaced by an expression of dawning comprehension as she followed his gaze. "Draco!" She hissed. "What the hell did you do to Potter's potion?" Draco tried to ooze innocence. Judging by Pansy's horrified expression, he'd failed pretty badly. Damn her and her impeccable instincts.  
  
"Whaaat?" He whined. "It's not like he doesn't deserve it." Pansy glared,  managing to get her point across with only her eyes. Draco would have been impressed if that point had been something other than _Potter saved us all from a Dark Lord, Draco, what could he have done to override that?_  
  
Luckily, she didn't say it out loud, or Draco would have had to admit he really wasn't sure. Potter was just always so there, and confident, and happy, and Draco was here for an impromptu eighth year on the thinnest of strings, which, come to think of it, might snap if this prank worked. Fuck. He really hadn't thought this through. Still, it was too late to back out now if he didn't want to completely reveal himself as the culprit now. Instead, he feigned nonchalance and hoped he was shielding his growing terror from Pansy properly.   
  
"I only added in a vial of modified Shrinking Draught. We're making a Good Dreams Draught, so it should cause an explosion, and Potter'll giggle uncontrollably for maybe five minutes, nothing serious. It can't be traced."  
  
Pansy relaxed slightly at this but kept casting anxious glances across the room to where Potter and the Weasel were arguing over the next step. Draco rolled his eyes minutely. How hard was it to follow the instructions written directly in front of them? Then again... Draco shuddered at the expression on Snape's face. No, he wouldn't want to look up there if that sneer was directed at him, either. Potter might've been regretting that he had saved the man's life now.  
  
He wiggled (not enough that anyone would have noticed) with both eager anticipation and dread as he went back to his potion and waited.  
  
A sudden bang rang out, and a few girls and Blaise shrilly screamed. Draco tried not to look up too suddenly as a rush of air passed over all of the students crowded into the dark dungeon room. No amount of craning his neck allowed him to see through the strangely puke-colored fog of sorts to Potter's cauldron. Therefore, the first update on his prank was the horrified shriek that cut through the gasping and muttering traveling around the classroom as Snape waved his wand to dissipate the fumes. Draco's stomach sank and violently landed in his shoes as he noticed that a pile of obnoxious Gryffindor robes had replaced Potter.  
  
"Where did he go?" Granger wailed. "He was just there... and then he vanished!" The Weasel nearly fell over running to her side to console her with murmurs that made Draco feel like throwing up even more.  
  
He turned to Pansy helplessly only to be met with a cold stare as she marched up to Snape to rat him out. Draco fell into his seat, dazed, as she began a conversation most likely full of accusations. The fact that they were all likely true didn't help his urge to vomit.  
  
He was only broken out of his trance when he noticed a flicker of movement under his desk. He bent down and instantly smashed his head into the wood with a sudden jerk. Hissing, he looked again. Yes, those were definitely Potter's eyes, the brilliant green marred only by wariness, his hideous glasses and a glint Draco didn't like. The biggest problem he had with Potter under his desk?   
  
He looked like a five-year-old.  
  
Draco gulped audibly. Potter instantly backed away out of arms reach and glared at him. Figures he'd be a brat even as a... what did you call children that looked about like Potter did? Near-infants?  
  
Draco had never spent much time around small humans. They were far too sticky and cried constantly. Luckily for Draco, little Potter was neither crying nor seemed to have rolled his body in any type of goo. Giving him a once over, the Slytherin did notice that the child was... only dressed in a far too large shirt. In a sudden flash of inspiration largely stemming from the desire to get in as little trouble as possible and the desire to never-ever be forced to see Potter's naked arse, Draco Transfigured some spare parchment into adequate, if slightly rumpled, clothing.  
  
He tossed them at the tiny being, frowning as Potter attempted to get as far away from him as possible.  Hee cast a Sticking Charm on him promptly and with tightly closed eyes spelled the clothes on the Brat Who Lived.  
  
"Honestly, Potter, are you that afraid of being dressed?" He scoffed at the finally acceptably clothed child, who instead of thanking him properly like Draco would've done at his age, bared his teeth at him and tried to launch himself past Draco and out from under the desk. Thanks to the charm, he instead promptly face planted into the stone floor. Draco barely concealed a snigger (it took a lot of effort not to just roll around laughing) and roughly grabbed tiny Potter's arm before releasing him from the charm.  
  
Before he could make another sprint for freedom, Draco hauled him out from the cramped space and marched him up to Snape's desk. He coughed, interrupting Pansy's lengthy speech. "I found him."  
  
With a great effort, he pushed Potter in front of Snape. The little boy took one look at the Potions Master's face, noting the expression which, if it couldn't kill on its own, certainly promised a slow, torturous death, and started running again. Draco swore as the surprisingly speedy child ducked under his arm, spun around his flailing legs, and made for the large door. He was tugging at the latch when Snape snapped harshly. "Come here. Enough nonsense."  
  
Draco knew this voice. When he'd had been smaller and his godfather had come to visit, that tone was the only one he'd listened to immediately. Whenever he had disobeyed the Potions teacher as a child, he had lost sweets for a week.  
  
Apparently, Potter was just smart enough to know that punishment was implied. Draco was actually rather startled by how suddenly the little heathen stopped trying to escape, although he did rather come back slowly. Draco did feel a twinge of shame when he noticed Potter had a bloody nose from his stumble on the floor, even if the kid himself hadn't noticed it. The Gryffindor cautiously edged closer to Snape, with surprising courage considering his sinister expression.  
  
As soon as Potter was in grabbing distance, Snape swooped down and clamped a hand on Potter's shoulder, immediately renewing the small child's struggles. Over the annoying whining noises Potter was now making, the teacher spoke. "Mr. Potter appears to have made a.... mistake." A few sniggers sounded throughout the room. "I will escort him to the Headmaster's office. You may leave after cleaning your stations."  
  
Students instantly began bustling around as Snape swept across the room. Just as Draco began to sag in relief, Snape turned to face him, effortlessly remaining in control of the fiercely wiggling Potter. "Mr. Malfoy, you will join us as well." Draco nervously glanced at Pansy (who looked smug, damn her,) and reluctantly began following his godfather.

 

* * *

  
The brat's reactions really were amusing, Draco thought absently. Every time he looked at Potter for more than a few seconds, he'd twist up his face and do everything but scream bloody murder. Little prat was probably used to everyone staring at him in adoration.  
  
"If I understand correctly, these effects were not intended by Mr. Malfoy?" Draco snapped his eyes guilty away from Potter, who'd started squirming into the back of the chair.  
  
"Ah... yes, Headmistress. I meant it as a joke. It was supposed to be five minutes of laughing, nothing more." He plastered a smile on his face and watched as McGonagall peered sternly down her nose at him.  
  
"Well then. Severus, are you certain it will take you a full week to ascertain the damage?" She gave the Potions Master an exasperated glance.  
  
"Quite sure, Minerva. Of course, I will then need to brew the counter, which may take up more time." The Headmistress nodded briskly and nodded for Snape to continue. "It will be necessary to have the altered Mr. Potter answer a few questions before I can begin working."  
  
McGonagall inclined her head in assent and the teacher turned his dark gaze on Potter, who immediately flinched. "What is your name?" He began. Potter eyed him for a short moment.  
  
"Harry. But..." he hesitated. "Everyone calls me Boy." Draco nearly snorted. It ended up still being audible, and sounded like a choke, causing the Headmistress to glance at him concernedly for a moment. He shook his head dismissively. Trust Potter to have all of his friends and relatives call him an abbreviated version of the famous title: "The Boy-Who-Lived". Conceited much? He smirked as Snape continued.  
  
"So that is your... nickname?" The disdain in his voice was palpable. Potter, the idiot, looked confused for a second before he nodded uncertainly. "Very well. How old are you?" Another pause.  
  
"Eight." Potters voice was timid and wavering. Draco looked up to notice an expression of surprise similar to his on the others faces. Draco, however, was also hiding a small smug smile. Once Potter was himself again, he'd have endless taunting material. If anyone had asked him, he'd have said six was stretching it for the small boy. He could go on forever mocking the Chosen One about how scrawny and scruffy he'd been as a child. Leaning back, he watched as his teacher pressed forwards, concealing his shock.  
  
"Where were you before you arrived in my classroom?"  
  
"I was in my..." Potter narrowed his eyes and swiveled his head to look at all of them. He nodded minutely before finishing. "In my house, right before dinner." He licked his lips unconsciously. Draco rolled his eyes. Typical Potter arrogance. Claiming to own his house, of all the ridiculous things. Never stopped for a moment to think about the people who'd actually paid for everything. He jolted when Snape stood up rapidly.  
  
"Thank you, Minerva." The man didn't do much as glance at the chair where Potter now appeared to be sulking. "That is all I needed to know. I believe that the error should be simple to discover and that our celebrity should be back to his over talkative self in no time. " The Headmistress gave him a short glare before fondly waving him off.  
  
"Well then, Severus, I will dismiss you for now. Please let me know if you need young Harry to speed things up." She smiled kindly at Potter, who furrowed his brow with suspicion. Prat. Snape nodded curtly, then swept out of the room. That left him and Potter still in the room. Draco realized that one large problem had yet to be overcome and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.  
  
"Now, Mr. Malfoy," McGonagall began, "There is still the matter of your punishment."   
  
Draco felt his heart freeze. "Ah- Please, I really don't think expulsion is the best course of action-"  
  
McGonagall's eyebrows rose as she interjected. "Now, now, Mr. Malfoy, why would I do that? It seems to me as if you are in need of a chance to prove you are worthy of staying at Hogwarts-" She paused, and Draco took the chance to nod frantically. "And I am in need of someone to watch young Harry." It took a few seconds for him to realize what she meant. Numbly, Draco gaped at her for a few minutes before he began spluttering.  
  
"But- but- I hate Potter- and look, even shrunk like this, he hates me!" He stared at the prat pleadingly, begging with his eyes for the child to go along with him. Instead, he gave Draco a calculating glance he'd never seen cross Potter's features before and turned to McGonagall.  
  
"Where am I?" He asked in a shifty voice, his eyes darting around the room warily. Draco's jaw dropped. How- how insolent! This baby had not only ignored him completely but had changed the subject entirely!  
  
"Dear Harry," the Headmistress gave him a small smile, "of course. You must be quite confused." The boy didn't so much as twitch, simply locking his eyes on her face. "You are at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry."  
  
Potters eyes widened before he shot out of his seat and had his back against the wall before Draco could even blink. "No!" He shouted, shaking his head violently. "Magic isn't real! You're lying!" Draco slowly faced McGonagall, trying to suppress laughter. Really? The Boy-Who-Lived-to-Annoy-Everyone hadn't known he was magical? Had he been living like a muggle? The Headmistress, he saw, merely had an expression of tired resignation on her face.  
  
Sighing softly, she muttered, "I had forgotten about this." With a clearer voice she stated, "Harry, dear, magic is, in fact, real." As Potter wildly swung his unruly mess of hair around, the Headmistress visibly attempted to acquire a cover story for his sudden appearance in the castle. Draco, noticing a chance to pull himself out of the hole he'd dug, rapidly began speaking.  
  
"Erm- hey- Potter-" the hooligan, who was now apparently trying to get himself up high enough to reach a window, narrowed his eyes at him. "Er- your adoring relatives left you here." He probably could have said that better. Draco amended his statement hastily. "But only for a bit!" With Potter's constant need for attention, Draco thought it was likely that the little bugger was homesick. McGonagall looked exasperated but nodded along with him. Fortunately, Potter seemed to buy it and slid down from the shelf he was perched on gracelessly. His landing made Draco wince, but Potter didn't seem to notice as he stalked back towards the desk.  
  
"Did they leave me here 'cause I can do magic?" The scraggly boy stared Draco's face. He blinked but took the easy way out.  
  
"Uh- yes, exactly." He tried to look kindly at Potter, trying to avoid another meltdown, but suspected he looked sickly instead.   
  
McGonagall seemed to have missed the memo that Draco was indeed faking his expression and was beaming at him.  
  
"Now, see, Mr. Malfoy? You and Harry will get along quite well." He shot an incredulous glance at her she seemed to conveniently miss, along with the fact that Potter was still glaring daggers at the both of them. "I believe that the Room of Requirement will suit your needs nicely. And-" she stared down at Draco with a  menacing expression, "I will not let either of you leave the room. Classwork shall be delivered instead, and you will be required to cook and clean. This is to be a punishment, a suspension of sorts. If no cure has been completed by next week, you will be permitted to go to your classes, accompanied by Harry."  
  
 Draco slowly sat down, his arguments fleeing in the wake of her unwavering words. He didn't need the Headmistress to speak the sentence that hung between them: not agreeing to this could very well mean his expulsion instead. He nodded and glanced at Potter, who promptly growled at him.  
  
This was going to be miserable.


	2. Draco Malfoy Can't Stand Emotions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco manages to trick a house-elf, lose a child in an enclosed space, and ignore his conscience. And all before lunch.

"Bloody hell!" Draco swore as soon as they were released. "Suspended for a week! And instead of spending it at home, I'm stuck in the castle with you!" Potter regarded him calmly, but still kept away from him and looked defensive. "All right," Draco muttered. "Come on, Potter." He strode off a few steps before realizing there was no small child trotting behind him. He spun around to a child lifting a stubborn chin up.  
  
"Don't call me Potter." He spoke quietly, but Draco still noticed godawful, childish defiance. He sighed heavily, making the prat take a step back. Good.  
  
"Well, I'm sure as hell not calling you Harry, if that's what you're asking for." Hopefully, he looked to Potter for a reaction, only to note the lack of infantile wide-eyed gasping and threats to 'tell' on him for his language. There were none. Oh well. At least he could swear now.  
  
Potter's brow furrowed. "Uh, no. You could call me boy, maybe."  He paused at the expression on Draco's face. "I have other... nicknames, too." He still looked confused as he stumbled over the word. "You could also call me fr-"   
  
"No, no- I'll just call you Potter. Deal with it."  He smirked at Potter, who glowered. "And I'm in charge. If you get in trouble, I'm in charge of handling you." He cocked his head at Potter, who wavered for a second before marching over to him, still determinedly out of arm's reach.  
  
 With a wicked grin, Draco confidently strode down the hallway, purposely allowing the child to struggle to keep up as he navigated the staircases, only stopping when Potter managed to lodge himself in a trick stair. And although Draco had taunted Potter endlessly throughout the rescue, the insults had seemed to roll right off the smaller person.   
  
Eventually, they arrived at the seventh floor. Draco paced in front of the wall and crossed his fingers as he swung open the door. He had no desire to spend a week trapped in a room full of whatever an eight-year-old Potter wanted.  
  
Taking a cautious step inside, he instantly relaxed. Instead of a hideous, vividly colored space, a reasonably elegant living room had appeared. A squashy white fur carpet occupied most of the floor. A dark desk and chair were placed in one corner. Draco grimaced at the reminder of homework. A green sofa and accompanying armchair were grouped around the carpet. A single bookcase leaned against one of the white walls, although they all appeared to be rather dry texts. At least he wouldn't die of boredom.  
  
Losing interest in the books, Draco continued on through an archway that appeared to lead to a kitchen. Wonderful. Cooking had never been a skill of his. He glanced through it, uninterested. It appeared to have the same wood flooring as the living room. A grey table was situated near a fake, cheery window, and had two straight-backed chairs. Boring.  
  
Striding back into the living room, he opened one of two deep brown doors situated next to each other. Peering in, he immediately knew this was meant to be his bedroom. A tall, four poster bed identical to his own in Slytherin took up a large portion of the room, and everything was either green, silver or the same brown as his door. He noticed another door he assumed led to a bathroom and sighed in relief. There was no way in hell he would have agreed to share a toilet with Potter.   
  
He noticed that a good amount of his clothes seemed to have made it to a closet in the corner and smiled. Being locked up with a brat was no excuse not to look fantastic. Draco stiffened. Speaking of Potter, where was he?  
  
He marched out of the room, swiveled his head, and noted that the other door was ajar. Striding in, he sighed tightly. This was so childish it had to have been designed by McGonagall. The walls were a soothing blue with flickering dots of light flitting across them. The floor seemed to only consist of a white carpet -and wasn't that a recipe for disaster. Wooden buckets filled with toys were lined against the walls. There was a door to what looked like a closet, and a small bed was in the corner. There appeared to be a bathroom in this room as well. Potter, the spoiled brat, was of course not appreciating any of it, and instead seemed to be pouting in the middle of the carpet. Draco huffed.  
  
"Honestly, Potter, what are you doing slouching about?" Potter instantly raised his head and frowned at him.  
  
In a defensive and obviously petulant tone, the prat asked him, "What do you want me to do?" Then he stood up and crossed his arms. Barely managing not to bury his head in his hands, Draco decided an abrupt departure was better than waiting around for Potter's next temper tantrum. Glancing at a clock placed high on the living room wall, he couldn't restrain the urge to stomp his foot. It was only three o'clock.

 

* * *

  
Draco stretched and pushed himself out of his extraordinarily comfortable bed. Potter had had the good sense to stay out of his way last night. He had actually been able to have some well-deserved child-free hours.   
  
He wasn't sure what would happen this morning, though. Draco winced as he recalled how cranky he'd always been in the morning at eight. Considering who Potter was, it'd probably be much worse with him.   
  
Rolling his neck, Draco ran a hand through his hair, because he couldn't do it after he finished his morning routine. He had to hurry and dress. There weren't any sounds coming from the room next door, but mischievous children, he knew from experience, were seldom loud. He slowed down after casting a Tempus charm and noting it was only eight. As lazy as Potter was, Draco doubted he had so much as rolled over yet.  
  
Fully dressed and ready to take on a day of sitting around, Draco shuffled into the kitchen. Oddly enough, there was a plate of food, untouched, sitting on the table, along with a glass of milk. Draco smirked. Some house-elf hadn't gotten the memo that Draco was supposed to be cooking.   
  
 He sat down to devour the omelet and bacon on the plate. A Malfoy wouldn't hesitate to take advantage of someone else's mistake.  Tossing the plate in the sink, he failed to notice the stray soap suds a house-elf would've never left sliding down its porcelain sides.  
  
He was halfway through an incredibly boring book on the lifespan of nightshade when he realized Potter hadn't come out of his room yet. Glancing upwards, he noticed it was past ten now, and high time the spoiled monster managed to wake up. Draco stood up and closed the book, a scathing insult already on his lips. Ignoring the niggling thought that warned him that an eight-year-old couldn't take harsh comments as well as an eighteen-year-old, he strode into the disgustingly infantile bedroom.  
  
The bed looked untouched, the pale blue covers unrumpled, and not a single toy looked out of place. Draco froze. What he had been planning to say to Potter was nothing next to what McGonagall would say to him if she found out he had lost the brat.   
  
He shook himself out of his stupor and frantically began searching the room and the bathroom, going as far as to check in the buckets. Bloody hell, watching kids was hard. It didn't help that Potter was assuredly the worst child in human existence, either.  
  
His perfectly styled hair a mess and his cheeks tinged pink, Draco finally swung open the closet door, panting. And there was Potter. Not dead, dying, or even a little maimed, which Draco was slightly disappointed at. If Draco was going to look ruffled, Potter should have had the decency to break an arm at the very least. But no. Instead, he had a perfectly healthy, glaring child with hair actually messier than the real Potter's. Draco hadn't thought it possible.  
  
Smoothing out his shirt, he tried to regain a semblance of decency. "What the hell are you doing in here, brat?"  
  
Maybe that wasn't the best way to go about it. Luckily, tiny Potter didn't seem to care.  
  
"I don't like that room." Draco stared down at him incredulously. The was no way in hell he was going to let Potter entertain ideas of superiority.  
  
Pressing his lips together and taking a deep, calming breath, Draco continued speaking reasonably. "Why the fucking hell not?" Maybe not.  
  
Potter's mouth settled into a thin line and his eyes flickered away from Draco. Silence. Draco twitched a bit. The brat didn't move. Draco could almost hear the clock in the living room ticking and finally gave in. A bit angry for completely understandable reasons (children should not be that still), he snapped. "Well, I'm certainly not going to be a shoulder to cry on. Get out of the goddamn closest and get a move on."  
  
Almost mechanically, the prat stood up, slid past Draco, and walked into the bathroom, shutting the door quietly. Speechless, the blond boy didn't move. He had been gearing for a fight, and it was a little unnerving to him when absolutely nothing happened. Potter was normally feistier.  
  
 Not that he was complaining. Obedient children were better than rude ones. It just didn't fit with Potter.  
  
Draco pivoted, planning on finishing his book if he couldn't fight. He ignored the knot in his stomach warning him that something wasn't right, pausing only on his way out of the room to shout: "You better clean up this disgraceful mess, too!"  
  
Sinking back into the sofa, Draco promptly dove back into his oh-so-fascinating tome, avoiding all contact with Potter. Looking at him was making Draco feel guilty for some reason. He didn't need that in his life.   
  
His marvelous plan to avoid the hellspawn and read instead worked for approximately one hour and twenty-eight minutes. It had almost worked for an hour and twenty-nine, but noises started coming out of the kitchen.  
  
Standing up, he decided that he was a bit hungry, and shouting at Potter wasn't a bad idea either. Purely to make up for earlier, of course. Drawing himself up, he marched into the kitchen with an arrogant smirk, running over taunts in his head.  
  
And he froze up again. The brat wasn't rummaging around in the cupboards whining about food. Instead, it looked like he was actually making cucumber sandwiches, a feat Draco had once tried. All he had accomplished was a screaming match with a house elf (one-sided), a lifelong ban from Malfoy Manor's kitchen, and an odd case of food poisoning. Potter's actually looked decent, and he was slicing things elegantly, especially for a brat. There were even sprigs of parsley adorning the finished sandwiches.  
  
"Sorry. It's almost done." Potter's quiet voice startled Draco, and he glanced over at the small shape near the counter.  
  
Draco stammered awkwardly, not sure what to say. "Ah... it's fine." The strange sick feeling intensified. A sudden thought occurred to him. "Um... did you make breakfast too?" He nodded. Draco stumbled back into one of the chairs in the corner and watched, mesmerized, as Potter brought a tray of sandwiches to the table.  
  
His confusion promptly dissolved into irritation when the brat started walking away from the table. "What, too good to sit with me, Potter? Come back." Potter shot him startled glance but readily returned to the small table. With a darted glance at Draco and a slight narrowing of his eyes, the child hesitantly snatched a sandwich and wolfed it down. Repulsed, Draco could only watch as the brat devoured the food. It didn't look like he was chewing it at all. Even as he pushed his chair back a bit, disgusted, he felt something niggling at the back of his brain. This felt familiar.  
  
A shouted, "Potter! Table manners!" caused the child to slow to Draco's great relief, and the persistent feeling subsided by minuscule amounts. Draco decided to forgo a rant in favor of eating as many sandwiches as possible. They might have been better than his house-elves sandwiches at home.  
  
They ate in silence for a while, and Draco was beginning to feel as if he could escape this meal unscathed. Naturally, that was when Potter began to talk.  
  
"Ah... you seem nice." Draco sent him an incredulous glare, wracking his memory for any possible time he could have come off as nice, of all things. Looking across the table, he noticed Potter was shifting uncomfortably.  Draco prepared for another inane remark.  
  
"Are you a freak?"  
  
Draco stopped chewing. He swallowed a lump of sandwich and faced the insolent brat. How dare he insult Draco.   
  
Here was the Potter he'd been expecting. Putting his best sneer on his face, he started to speak, only to have Potter cut him off.  
  
"I mean, you act nice, but you can do freaky things like me, I think. So I'm not sure."  
  
The sick feeling came back, and Draco knew where he had seen this before.  
  
Theodore Nott. Shit.  
  
 All of the first year Slytherins had taunted the boy, Draco included, for his lack of table manners, silence, and refusal to take showers with others. He'd mentioned it to his Godfather at one point, and the next day the Nott parent's arrest had been in the newspapers.  
  
And now Draco had Potter, who might have been abused too.   
  
Might have.  
  
That thought was the only one that let Draco push aside the squirming in his stomach. Maybe Potter had just been making fun of him, and they could go back to hating each other.   
  
Draco shook his head and locked his eyes on to Potter's. It admittedly was difficult, considering they were darting all over the place. He noticed the child's pockets bulging with food and felt worse.  
  
"Who called you that?"


	3. Draco Malfoy Can't Stand Guilt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Sorry it's been so long. I'm a pretty inconsistent writer, apologies. This chapter's pretty short, Buut I couldn't figure out a better stopping point.

Draco carefully watched Potter, attempting to keep his face as blank and welcoming-looking as possible as it could get when talking to his nemesis. For a few seconds, emotions fluctuated across the boy's face before he noticed Draco watching and became closed off. A halfhearted sneer grew on the brat's face before he closed his eyes, shook his head, and reopened his eyes with a truly malicious expression decorating his face.

"I didn't say anyone called me that. I said you were freaky and weird and I wanna know why." Potter's lip trembled a bit, but the infuriatingly defiant expression on his face remained. His eyes glinting, the smaller boy glared up at him, daring him to say something.

Now, Draco was a smart boy. If it weren't for Granger, he'd probably have the best grades in their year. Except maybe Defense. The new teacher there worshipped Potter. But somehow, all of his knowledge and restraint melted away as he stared right back into green, stubborn eyes. Not even the thought that if Potter was really abused, fighting would tear Potter's trust in him to shreds could make him stop. He hated Potter, and Potter hated him right back. That was all he needed. All was right with the world. As long as Potter was staring at him with that same stubborn tilt to his chin, the one he always had just before charging headfirst into any kind of danger, nothing could be wrong.

"What the fuck did you just say to me?" He kept his voice low and quiet, a dangerous edge to it. A roar built in his ears, his skin itching, his body braced. For what, he wasn't sure.

"I said you're weird. And an ugly, freaky, good-for-nothing mistake." Everything in him buzzed and sang. He was digging his nails deep into his palms, deep enough that he might be drawing blood. He didn't bother to check. He tried to restrain himself, really. Potter was an infant. A child. A nuisance.

But when Potter smirked, a condescending, nasty expression that never appeared on the real Potter's face, all he could see was green, green, taunting eyes and that defiant head-tilt and that awful, miserable grin steadily growing wider and suddenly Potter was Potter and not a child at all. Since First Year they'd been fighting. The response to try to get under Potter's skin and hurt him was ingrained into him, he was sure, and was it truly his fault if they fought? Deep down, Draco knew that these justifications were as ridiculous as Dumbledore's robe choices, but that smirk and his pounding heartbeat drowned out his rational side. The insults were petty. Childish. Nothing compared to what Potter had actually said to him before. Yet somehow, it didn't matter that the insults were something he'd have laughed at coming from anyone else. Because Potter was the one saying them. 

Draco growled and launched himself across the table, trying to grab Potter's arm. Obviously he needed discipline, and far be it from Draco to abstain. 

Cursing loudly as the little boy managed to duck under the table and slide into the living room, he chased after him. He ignored the fact that his grip alone would probably have left bruises painful enough to make a Third Year wail, let alone an eight year old. This was what he needed. "Brat, you're going to wish you'd never seen my face before when through with you!"

Something in him felt relieved to be fighting with Potter, had felt incomplete without the steady trading of insults and hexes. The rest of him felt horrified at the thought.

"I already do!" Was the muffled response from behind one of the couches. Letting loose a stream of swear words under his breath, Draco marched towards the voice, only to begin the swearing anew as the book he'd been reading earlier suddenly launched towards his face with surprising speed and accuracy, clipping his shoulder as he dodged it, stubbing his toe in the process.

"Fuck you! What the hell do you think you're doing? You could have hurt me!"

"That was the point!" Came the shouted reply. Draco rounded around to the back of the couch, intent on ending this quickly, only to be faced with a multitude of hurtling objects. With a squeak that he would forever deny the existence of, he jumped back when a pot of ink shattered midair, drenching him. He only realized his mistake when he heard the sound of a door slamming as he wiped ink from his eyes, looking around for his wand as his blood began to cool, the pounding in his ears dying down.

It was over in under a minute.

He swore again bitterly as he looked down at the sight of the majority of his homework swimming in a pool of jet black ink. His anger grew again and he slowly turned towards Potter's closed bedroom door. He closed his eyes, counting to a hundred in French, draining the itch to attack from his body, occasionally rubbing his fingers over the marks in his hands he had yet to heal. 

As his heartbeat slowed, his guilt began to steadily grow. Really, Potter had been an awful, spoiled brat, but Draco had been the one to leap at him. Now, standing in soggy, blue clothes in the middle of schoolwork that was already self-charming away the excess ink, he felt rather foolish. 

Draco set his lips in a firm line as he cleaned his outfit with a quick flick of his wand. Honestly, Potter should've known better. He'd made it perfectly clear that he would not tolerate whiny, self-centered behavior, and the child had clearly overstepped his boundaries. 

More guilt and a twinge of shame, oddly, rose up before Draco shoved the emotions down into a deep dark corner of himself to wither and die. Shaking his head, hard, he was preparing to clean the floor off, too, when the Floo activated.

"Draco?" The voice that was unmistakably his godfather's.

Eager to dispose of any and all thoughts of a certain green-eyed devil, Draco nearly sprinted to the fireplace and crouched down so quickly he heard his knees crack. Snape eyed him strangely but made no comment, for which Draco was grateful.

"Have you finished it, Professor Snape? Is it ready?" Draco anxiously stared at the Professor, who sighed, irritated.

"I told you it would take some time, did I not? I am merely ensuring that you and Potter have not killed each other off yet." Snape paused and looked at Draco expectantly.

Overly aware of the shut door behind him, the large ink puddle, and his toe, throbbing where he'd hit it, he cleared his throat roughly. "Yeah," He said. "Yeah, um- Potter's-" 

Draco hesitated, recalling a flash of insecurity, a murmured, "Are you a freak?", and guarded green eyes. 

What would happen if he blurted out, "Everything's sunshine and daisies, Professor Snape, but I think the bloody Boy-Who-Lived might've been knocked up a bit, how've you been?" Hysterical laughter threatened to bubble up, and now Snape was most definitely looking worried, although the emotion did not fit well on his face. Draco rocked forward, pain shooting up his toe as his palms burned.

At that moment he all he could think of was how wide Potter's smile had been, sharp and mocking as he dodged Draco, and suddenly it was the easiest thing in the world to call up hatred and annoyance to say: "Potter's a spoiled terror of a child, of course, but I think I can manage." He smugly smiled at Snape. "He's so much smaller than usual, it's laughable when he tries to throw his usual fits."

His godfather, reassured, nodded. "Well, I must keep this conversation brief and resume work on the insufferable boy's remedy. Potter is the school's largest source of mishaps." Draco smirked and the connection dissolved. His smile faded.

Slowly standing up, he walked over in a daze to clean up the ink before heavily sitting down on the sofa. His stomach squeezed as he recalled how easily he'd brushed aside Potter's potential problems in the face of his rage. In answer, that same hatred roared to life, reminding him of all the years Potter had insulted and fought with him. Honestly, would it even make a difference if he did tell anyone? The actual Potter was already an adult, completing his eighth year, and certainly didn't have to worry about any family-related issues anymore. 

The awful twisting resided a bit, but he spent the rest of the afternoon staring into space. Did it make him a horrible person if anger was the only thing holding him back and guilt was the only thing driving him forwards when it came to Potter's potential abuse? Of course, he wouldn't be surprised if the brat was faking the whole thing, either.

Draco pulled himself into bed and slept dreamlessly.

He woke up to the sound of a door shutting quietly and tensed. Minutes passed by, and only when it became clear that Potter had gone into his room and had no plans of pursuing a conversation did he relax. Draco was fine with that. The only feasible option he saw was ignoring the issue entirely. Really, he should have done that from the start. After all, Potter wasn't actually eight, and he'd eventually go back to his own age and be perfectly, assuredly fine.

This was perfectly fine.

Draco groaned and pushed his head under the nearest pillow, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. Pulling the sheets over his head, he didn't move again until he'd firmly convinced himself that his plan of action was correct. Besides, Potter deserved to be ignored after throwing a fucking book at his face. 

Eventually he stood up, drew in a sharp breath and slid a hand through his hair, just because he couldn't do it after his morning routine.

Breakfast was French toast with sliced strawberries.


	4. Draco Malfoy Can't Stand Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco's bored. Obviously, he strikes a deal to keep everything boring.
> 
> It made sense at the time.

Nothing was happening.

Not that Draco wanted anything to happen, of course. Potter was plenty of trouble on his own, even without throwing in the.... other issues. 

But it had been a whole day. No emotional confessions, no fighting, no sudden apologies or heartfelt tears.... Nothing.

Draco was bored. There was only so much you could do- and think about- in the small space they'd been allotted.

Yesterday, in the rare instance they'd bump into each other, Potter had eyed him oddly and silently, then slid around him effortlessly in a way that made Draco flinch, but he hadn't spoken a word to him. The brat seemed to have started working his way slowly but steadily through the bookshelves, and Draco kept practicing the most time-consuming and difficult pieces of magic he knew in an effort to avoid thinking.

He could now produce a Patronus while thinking about Potter, which was incredibly disturbing and made Draco question his sanity.

But now he was drained of energy and lonely, although like hell he'd ever admit to Pansy that he maybe missed her endless prattling about the newest fashion trends and wanted her advice on how to deal with this situation on his own.

Or maybe not. Draco could imagine her stern, disapproving face looming above him, hissing out threats for not telling anyone for so long, threatening to write his mother...

Draco swallowed harshly and snapped his attention back to the Transfiguration paper that was due next month. His mother was vicious whenever Pansy whined about something in a letter to her. The Howlers from his mother about his prank were the only post getting through to him right now, and he'd burned fourteen already.

The thought of what would happen when he met his mum in person made him nearly tear a hole in his essay with the quill. He'd be assigned menial tasks for months.

The sound of someone in the fireplace was a welcome distraction and he eagerly stood up. All of Draco's enthusiasm vanished rapidly, however, as he realized what the Floo call meant: another terrifying half-hour spent lying to his godfather about Potter and Draco's miraculous and quite sudden ability to cook. The cooking skills were actually harder to hide. Professor Snape's deep and bottomless hatred of Potter left him, Draco suspected, physically incapable of believing his most hated student could be anything more than a bumbling idiot who had stumbled his way through defeating the Dark Lord. 

Although Potter hadn't really helped his case any by actually managing to die temporarily. Draco had been subject to dark mutters about how the Nuisance-Who-Lived couldn't even die without botching the whole affair ever since Snape had woken up in the hospital wing after the War. On the other hand, the professor had seen his godson light his kitchen table on fire once in an incredibly unsuccessful attempt to make toast.

So far Draco was passing off the lack of starvation as a combination of Potter's "Muggle sandwich making skills" and Draco's talent at supervising children.

Professor Snape had seemed suspicious, but he'd dragged Potter over to the fireplace by his ear and very politely asked the adorable youngster to tell the nice teacher that Draco was absolutely right. It'd involved a fair amount of pinching and barely audible threats.

But now... Draco felt stuck. Which was ridiculous, really, because he owed nothing to a child who wasn't really a child, who was, in fact, his arch-enemy ever since the Dark Lord had died, and would never again have to deal with his relatives, anyway.

He still felt confused, though, and he didn't know why. 

Shaking his head, Draco strode confidently over to the fireplace, nearly slipping on the floor in his new socks, and prepared to fudge the truth. Just a bit.

\-----------------------------

Once Snape had finished his interrogation poorly disguised as interest in his godson's difficult and trying hardships, the fake window in the kitchen was softly glowing with fake moonlight. Draco glanced up as he raked ashes out of his hair, sighing in irritation when he realized that Potter was hovering in the doorway to the gaudy, overdecorated room the child slept in.

"What is it? Not enough toys in your bedroom?" It was a halfhearted, dull jibe, and Potter didn't react beyond a brief scowl in Draco's general direction.

The boy hesitated, then seemed to gather up his courage, and finally deflated. Haltingly, he spoke. "Well- I mean- thanks, but- why haven't you said anything to that man about how I fought with you?" Wary, assessing eyes shone up at him through what Draco could confidently call the worst bed head he'd ever seen after ten o'clock in the morning. The top spot for that had been taken by Potter as well, unsurprisingly.

As the brat stammered through his little speech, Draco was assaulted by the first unmuddied emotion he'd felt since the aforementioned fight: honest surprise. Did this tiny person really have no idea how much more responsible he was for the fight? Giving in to the awkward provocation effort of an eight-year-old would forever be a special memory of intense shame for him.

Apparently not.

And what Draco liked to call the Slytherin in him, although it could easily be said to be his ruthlessness, or his indifference to others, slowly awoke from the depressed slump it'd been in since the prank. Honestly, despite his boredom, it was probably better if Snape didn't find out about his stunt, and if he ensured it didn't happen again.

"-So what you're saying is that you want me to continue to lie to Professor Snape, to not tell him that you've attempted to injure me, his favorite student, his precious godson." Draco interrupted, stressing the last word, guiltily delighting in the array of facial expressions Potter went through, speeding through hope, worry, confusion and paling dramatically at the final word.

He nodded mutely.

As if deep in thought, although really, his steadily amassing guilt and sense of self-preservation were warring within him just beneath his cool facade, Draco gave a nod back, although his was serene and slow as opposed to the child's frantic, jerky one. "Ah, I see... Well, I see no problems in doing so." He returned his heyes to Potter briefly, completing a quick sweep of the boy's face, and- yes, the hope was steadily returning, although tinted with a fair amount of wariness and distrust, rightly so. Perfect. 

He spoke again. "Really, what I seem to be having an issue with is what benefits I get out of this." There. Even a three-year-old could pick up on that big of a hint.

Now Potter was obviously thinking hard. All of the emotions formerly swirling around on his face dropped off. Only, cool, hard calculation remained. The brat swiftly grasped how little he could actually offer Draco that he didn't already have, and bluntly told him as such.

"What do you want?" The older boy blinked once. This would be easy. It wasn't that little Potter was necessarily easily manipulated, but that he assigned no worth to himself as a person, allowing Draco to twist this situation to his favor. 

Somehow, that thought made his heart, which he would much prefer to forget about, twinge. Only the littlest bit, though. Nothing to be concerned about.

Immediately, he dropped the bland, half-amused expression off his face and lent forward seriously, causing Potter to unwillingly inch forward. "I want you to leave me alone. I don't care what the hell you do. Practice wandless magic in your room, if you feel like it. But I don't want to hear you or see you. If you're in the living room and I walk in, you'd better move out of there faster than a niffler after gold. Got it?"

For an instant, all the prat did was look incredibly confused, and Draco remembered abruptly that Potter was Muggle-raised and that he had entirely neglected to tell the smaller person anything about the Wizarding World whatsoever. However, the boy's face rapidly cleared. He nodded again, distinctively calmer, then took a step back and slammed his bedroom door in Draco's face.

The Slytherin was taken aback, and for a moment, his all-consuming, powerful rage threatened to return. Containing it made him lightheaded and his hands clench, but in the end he simply shrugged, although it felt forced. Regret swamped him for no apparent reason.

That was that.


	5. Draco Malfoy Can't Stand Rum Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snot, tears and running all rank in the top 20 of Draco's least favorite things.
> 
> Damn it.

 The week drew to a close without another conversation between the two of them. The Floo calls from his Godfather came regularly. They were occasionally interrupted by McGonagall, who often demanded visual confirmation of Potter’s wellbeing. Draco would say, “Potter,” in a cool, neutral tone and the boy would shuffle out of his room to give the Headmistress a tight-lipped smile. Then he would swing himself around and march right back into his bedroom. While McGonagall obviously believed that the two boy’s relationship was improving, Professor Snape seemed just as convinced that Draco was a half-second away from maiming or being maimed by the smaller boy.  
  
   
  
In reality, Draco doubted either teacher was right. The relationship between the two of them was purely one of give-and-take. Harry cooked, cleaned and stayed quiet. Draco... Did his homework and glared suspiciously at everything Potter did.  
  
   
  
It worked out well.  
  
   
  
While the pangs of guilt lingered, much like a bad cold, Draco felt reasonably comfortable with the situation. In fact, it wasn’t until Sunday evening that he was reminded of McGonagall’s fateful words the week before.  
  
“ _What?_ You must be joking.” A stern glare from his Godfather quieted Draco instantly.  
  
“I certainly am not. The staff of this school, including myself, cannot condone keeping a student confined for over a week. You will attend classes in person starting tomorrow morning.”  
  
   
  
Draco sighed as loudly as he could. That usually worked. “When’s the potion going to be done? Aren’t you supposed to be good at this?”  
  
   
  
Snape glowered at him. “Draco, you overestimated Potter and Weasley ’s abilities. Their potion could have been made by a blind toddler for all it followed the instructions. Your little prank reacted to their mistakes and changed the makeup of the draught. I am being forced to examine their potion thoroughly simply to discover what it is they put in it, as Mr. Weasley certainly doesn’t know!”  
  
   
  
A little remorseful and angry that he was, the blond flopped back and banged his head on the couch. He clutched it, hissing.  
  
   
  
The smarting pain fueling his entirely sensible outrage, he snapped back a question. “And the brat? What about him? I’m not taking him to classes.”  
  
His Professor’s pursed lips told him everything. “Bloody hell, _no_! ”  
  
“Language, Draco,” was the only reply.  


* * *

  
    Bright and early Monday morning, Draco was standing in front of the Slytherin common room with his bag slung over one shoulder and a small child in tow. Luckily, Potter was quiet enough to avoid detection by most of his Housemates, something that made Draco feel mildly concerned but mostly pleased. While he was reasonably certain everyone in Hogwarts knew about Potter’s ‘current state’ (Longbottom, surprisingly, was a blabbermouth), a child unseen was a child difficult to permanently maim and/or injure. And he was sure that at least a few of the older Slytherins wouldn’t think twice about sending a mini Potter to the Hospital Wing.  
  
   
  
His suspicions proved correct when he noticed at least five heads swivel to watch their entrance greedily. Their expressions quickly turned to ones of confusion. “I thought you were watching Potter,” muttered Theodore Nott.  
  
   
  
Draco sighed. Really, how much of an idiot could one person be? “I am,” he explained patiently. “He’s just small, remember?”  
  
   
  
Theo eyed him warily. “I don’t see Potter at all,” he said.  
  
   
  
He scoffed, glancing over towards mini-Potter. “That’s absurd. Are you blind? Maybe a trip to the-” He paused. Blinked. Counted to ten. “Where’s Potter?”  
  
   
  
Theo snorted. “That’s what I was asking you. Moron.”  
  
   
  
Draco spun to face the idiot-who-thought-he-could-insult-the-Malfoy-heir-and-get-away-with-it, his face red.  
  
   
  
“That was a rhetorical question! Wasn’t it obvious?”  
  
   
  
“I’m surprised you know what rhetorical means.”  
  
   
  
“How dare-”  
  
   
  
“Shouldn’t you be looking for Potter? You’ll be expelled if you lose him.”  
  
   
  
Draco pursed his lips. While Theo was an imbecile, he had a point. And this was already the second time he had lost Potter. “Fine.” He strode back out of the common room, then looked back over his shoulder at Theodore. “But this isn’t over! Remember that!” Theo snorted and waved halfheartedly, already back to focusing on his game of chess. Hopefully, he was losing. Bastard.  
  
   
  
Luckily, spending a week with tiny Potter had taught him a few things about children.  
  
   
  
Firstly- they liked to hide in small, dark places.  
  
   
  
Secondly…  
  
   
  
Well, that was all he had learned, but that was all he needed to know. Besides, there were only so many places he could be. Predicting a child’s actions was a piece of cake, especially for someone as talented as Draco.  
  
  
  
  
Two hours later, panting desperately for breath (elegantly, of course) in some godforsaken corner of the dungeons, sprawled out underneath a vaguely unsettling portrait of some sort of unicorn whale, Draco decided that finding a small child in the vast hallways of Hogwarts was not very much like a piece of cake. Even if it were, it would be a slice of that horrible rum-infused dark chocolate cake that his mother used to make him eat at Christmas parties. Disappointing and disgusting in every way possible.  
  
   
  
Draco swore, violently wiping the sweat off of his brow. “Little bastard.”  
  
   
  
A dispassionate, “Who is?” sounded from nearby.  
  
   
  
Draco frowned. Why was someone interrupting his sulk- strategic planning? No one in their right mind would come down here alone.  
  
   
  
He considered this for a minute, then shot to his feet. What if they were crazy? A handsome, elegant, poised heir to a wealthy family would be the perfect target. A kidnapper wouldn’t be able to pass him up.  
  
   
  
Whipping out his wand, Draco rapidly spun around, trying to conceal the fact that he had forgotten which direction the voice had come from.  
  
   
  
“Who is it? I’ll have you know that as the Malfoy scion, I’m well-versed in many deadly forms of magic, and-”  
  
   
  
“Well, you’re not very good at them.” Wheeling to face the person behind him, he fired off an Expelliarmus unthinkingly. Then, blinking downwards, he felt an unwarranted twinge of relief.  
  
   
  
“Potter.” The scrawny boy stared up at him, his eyes unmoving. Scanning the child in front of him, Draco relaxed as he noticed he wasn’t injured, although his hair had a braid and several spiders in it.  
  
   
  
As his happiness faded, annoyance took its place. “What the hell were you thinking? What made you think you could leave? I’m in charge of you until the potion’s finished!”  
  
   
  
Mini-Potter fixed his gaze on the unicorn-whale. “They didn’t like me and I didn't like them. So I left.”  
  
   
  
Draco sucked in a sharp breath and bit his cheek. “That. Is not. A valid.  Reason.” Rolling his eyes to the ceiling, he continued. “Those are my- not friends, but allies, and you’re making me look bad. Do you know how long I spent looking for you today? You’re nothing but a bother!” He glared at Potter, whose downturned face and mop of hair hid his features. Huffing at the lack of response, he reached down and jerked on one of the boy’s thin arms, prepared to drag him back to Slytherin. Perhaps he could ask McGonagall if a small bit of corporal punishment was alright. He’d planned to catch up with everyone today, and now he had already missed breakfast and half of his first class.  
  
   
  
Then he heard a sniffle.  
  
   
  
It wasn’t very loud, the way most of Draco’s had been as a child, designed to send a house-elf running to fetch a toy or a snack for him. It sounded accidental, the kind of sniffle you let out when you were locked into your bedroom with the lights off, buried under as many blankets as you could find.  
  
   
  
It also sounded like the precursor to ugly, loud, wet tears. The kind that would get Draco removed from Hogwarts permanently. They weren’t in their room anymore either, and it would be oh-so-easy for Potter to walk up to a kind-looking classmate and tattle…  
  
   
  
And then Draco would be all alone again, in a big empty house with an empty-  
  
   
  
Panicking, he dropped Potter’s hand and turned to look at him. He had to say something, something that would comfort a small, emotional person. Something that would change his opinion of Draco in an instant.  
  
   
  
“What? Don’t be a baby, I wasn’t grabbing your arm that tightly.” Potter didn’t respond, shrinking into himself.  
  
   
  
… Draco really wasn’t very good at this.  
  
   
  
His anxiety rising, the blond boy scowled at him. “What is it?”  
  
   
  
Potter’s eyes darted towards his face, then away again. “Nothing. I’m fine.”  
  
   
  
Draco scoffed. “If you’re fine, I’m a hippogriff.” The smaller boy stared at him blankly and he sighed. “Not that you’d know what that is, of course.”  
  
   
  
Pausing a moment, Draco examined Potter. He looked wobbly and insignificant in the darkness of the dungeons. A scruffy boy standing alone unsteadily. A pang of emotion he didn’t want to analyze hit him. Draco ran a hand through his hair, ruining his hairstyle, and crouched in front of Potter. He stared awkwardly at Potter’s trembling hands for a while before speaking.  
  
   
  
“I’m in charge of you, so spit it out.” Draco winced and tried to soften his tone. “I… I don’t really like you at all, and I think children are annoying, but…” He bit his lip. The tense silence that had dominated their interactions for most of the past week was creeping into his words and draining them of their value. Any comforting falsities he came up with died in his mouth, leaving a bitter dryness on his tongue. He stared up hopelessly at a small boy viciously attempting to keep himself from shaking, his body rigid with the effort.  
  
   
  
“Tell me what’s wrong.” His voice was barely audible. Mini-Potter locked his gaze sharply on Draco, his eyes wide open in an effort to keep tears from spilling out.  Draco averted his eyes from the boy in front of him.  
  
   
  
“N-nothing’s wrong. I’m fine.” Potter spoke in broken syllables, his breath hitching on every word. Draco watched silently, his stomach twisting. Potter was gasping irregularly, not breathing at all for thirty seconds before shakily gulping for air. His arms were wrapped tightly around himself, leaving red indents on his skin.  
  
   
  
As the boy began to breathe more heavily and his eyes became less focused, Draco hesitantly extended his hand. “Potter? Are you-”  
  
   
  
“Don’t!” The child flinched away. “... Don’t touch me.”  
  
   
  
“...Fine.”  
  
   
  
Draco sat, stretching out his tingling legs. He bit his lip, not sure how to continue.  
  
   
  
“You… Even if I don’t like you, I can help you out a little,” he muttered. “It’s my job, anyway.”  
  
   
  
“I don’t like you either.”  
  
   
  
“Shut up, brat.”  
  
   
  
Potter smirked weakly and slid to the floor. Burying his head in his knees, his crying became steadily louder, eventually breaking into muffled sobs. Draco tilted his head back, counting the stones in the wall in the flickering light.  
  
   
  
The small boy next to him didn’t trust him enough to explain what was wrong, and he certainly wasn’t going to ask.  
  
   
  
They stayed on the floor for a while. Potter wiped his eyes and sniffled faintly. Eventually, he raised his head, his eyes swollen and his nose crusty, and stared at Draco warily. He stared back, just as uncertain. What did you usually do when a child stopped crying? Reward them? If so…  
  
   
  
“Cake.”  
  
   
  
Mini-Potter narrowed his eyes at him. “What?”  
  
   
  
“I want cake. And since I’m in charge of you, you have to come too.” Draco stood and Potter promptly followed.  
  
   
  
“Where can you get cake here?”  
  
   
  
“House-elves.”  
  
   
  
Potter blinked and rubbed his nose.  
  
   
  
    “They’re basically you, but they’re not people. And they’re not quite as ugly.”  
  
   
  
Shoving his hands into his pockets, Potter frowned sleepily. Draco sneered and started walking, his confidence growing with every step he took. This was where he excelled.  
  
   
  
Insults.  
  
   
  
“Really, Potter, you’re just like a muggle. No knowledge of the magical world whatso-”  
  
   
  
“It’s this way.” Turning, he stared at the Brat-Who-Lived.  
  
   
  
“What?”  
  
   
  
“It’s this way back to the dungeons.”  
  
   
  
Draco pursed his lips. “Of course it is. I’m not an imbecile. I’m the Malfoy heir, you know. And my mother is a Black. Do you realize how far back you can trace both of those families?”  
  
   
  
The cake was delicious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Sorry I'm so bad at updating regularly. Honestly this is kinda just a mishmash of ideas and it's the longest thing I've ever written, so I'm glad so many people are enjoying this!! Please bear with me and my slow writing, and check out my other randomly-updated fics if you're interested.  
> Thanks!!


	6. Draco Malfoy Can't Stand Gryffindors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An heir of an enormous fortune, two Gryffindors, and a de-aged savior are all sitting in the middle of the Slytherin common room.
> 
> It sounds like the start of a bad joke, but no, this is actually Draco Malfoy's life now.

Everything went downhill after the cake.  
  
Not that anything had been going particularly well before the cake, either.  But it hadn't been as awful as this, at the very least.  
  
And by this, Draco meant having Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley in the Slytherin common room, glaring daggers at him, Theo, all of the upper-year Slytherins, the fireplace, and generally anything that wasn't Potter.  
   
“Honestly, what was McGonagall thinking,” muttered Granger, “Not letting us check in on Harry at all… So much could've gone wrong! Her security measures were practically worthless.”  
  
Privately, Draco agreed, not that he'd ever tell the know-it-all, frizzy-haired-  
  
“And she left him with a Slytherin,” added Weasley, as if that was somehow worse. In his eyes, it probably was. Damn Blood Traitor.  
  
“Well, excuse you,” Draco scoffed. “Taking care of a child isn't difficult. Does he look dead, maimed or injured to you?”  
  
Granger bit her cheek and didn't speak for a moment. “Draco,” she said, “You didn't show up for any morning classes. No one knew where you were. And when you did come back, Harry was covered with cobwebs and eating cake at ten in the morning. Was ‘not being dead’ the only thing you took into consideration?”  
  
Draco bristled. Maybe. “Of course not. I made sure he was quiet and cleaned up after himself too.”  
  
The Gryffindor closed her eyes and exhaled sharply. “Wonderful. What a fantastic father you’ll make someday.”  
  
“He’s not my child! He’s just a smaller, slightly messier version of Potter!”  
  
  
“No, Draco! That's not how children work. They need love, affection, and guidance. Especially Harry.”  
  
“Love? I’m Potter’s enemy!”  
  
“Oh, don’t be overdramatic.” Granger paused. “Sorry, that might be asking for too much.”  
  
Draco sniffed and turned his head to the wall (and okay, maybe the gesture was a little dramatic). “Well, you can shower him with hugs and kisses yourself. I’m sure he’ll be delighted. Besides, are you really sure Potter would be pleased if he grew up again and realized he’d been treated with love and affection by Draco Malfoy? I think not.”  
  
“He has a point, ‘Mione,” said the Weasel shiftily, looking upset about the fact that he was supporting Draco, of all people. The horror.  
  
Granger frowned at Draco, but turned to Potter instead of arguing. “Harry, how are you doing? Do you like Hogwarts?”  
  
Potter stared up at her warily, then nodded. “It’s big.”  
  
“Isn’t it?” she smiled gently at Potter. “My name’s Hermione. This is Ron. We are- we want to be your friends. Does that sound alright?”  
  
Potter eyed her, then dipped his head slowly. “Okay.”  
  
Weasley took that as his cue to start talking. Not that he really needed one, anyway. He never shut up. “Great! Do you want to sit with us for lunch? Or we could play Quidditch, I bet you’d be fantastic at that! Or maybe kickball? Football? That muggle game.”  
  
Potter inched away from the Weasel, his eyes wide. Granger snatched up Weasley’s hand and squeezed it. He yelped and Draco winced, recalling Pansy’s equally expert death-vice-esque grips.  
  
“I think he’ll sit with the Slytherins for lunch, but Quidditch this afternoon would work. Why don’t you join us, Draco?”  
  
Draco scoffed, a brilliantly scathing refusal on his lips. Granger gave him a sweet and mildly threatening smile. Her hand tightened on Weasley's as he frowned and opened his mouth again to protest. He yelped, louder than last time. Draco imagined his own elegant hand marred with deep red fingernail markings and flinched.  
  
“I can hardly wait.”  
  
  
After an uncomfortable lunch that consisted of him attempting to shove food in his mouth every time Pansy asked him a question and glaring at Potter’s atrocious table manners, they headed to Transfiguration. The new teacher was a bubbly young witch whose face was utterly forgettable and whose name Draco didn’t remember. By the time afternoon classes ended, flying brooms with Granger and Weasley sounded miserable. Unfortunately,  listening to Granger nag about them not showing up sounded worse. After a great deal of sighing (mostly on Draco's part, although he would swear otherwise before Merlin himself) down they went, with Potter bundled up in a hastily conjured wool coat.  
  
“Malfoy, it’s October,” was the first thing Weasley said when they arrived.  
  
Draco raised his eyebrows. “Astute observation, Weasley.”  
  
Weasley rolled his eyes. “Why does Harry look like he’s about to fight Russia in the middle of December? He must be boiling.”  
  
Draco glanced down. Potter did look rather red. “Children get cold easily.”  
  
Weasley tried to sneer and ended up grimacing oddly. “You sound like you took parenting advice from aliens, Malfoy.”  
  
“Better from aliens than a homeless, colorblind house elf,” Draco sniffed pointedly, eyeing Weasley’s… eccentric, to put it nicely, outfit. A Gryffindor scarf with a pink shirt and green jeans? Really?  
  
 Weasley turned as violently red as his hair and started sputtering. Draco winced. His poor eyes. “Not everyone spends thirty minutes brushing their hair in the morning!”  
  
Draco glared. “That’s ridiculous. I’ve never taken over fifteen minutes to do my hair.”  
  
“Oh, like that’s better? I take ten minutes, tops, to get down to breakfast. That's including a shower!”  
  
Draco sniffed again. “Well, that explains it, then.”  
  
Weasley took a step towards him, his eyebrows knitting together. Potter looked out with wide eyes from inside of the coat, apparently not planning on picking a side. Traitor. “Oi, what’s that-”  
  
Granger stepped in between them, clapping loudly. All three of them flinched back. “Alright then, that’s quite enough. What were you boys arguing over? Morning routines? Swapping hair-care tips?”  
  
They both glanced away scowling and kicked at the grass.  
  
Weasley pouted. “Hermione, he started it!” Draco had to close his eyes to avoid losing his lunch.  
  
“I most certainly did not,” he hissed. “Weasley was mocking my life choices.”  
  
Weasley scoffed. “Don’t be so bloody dramatic! I told you Harry was hot and you exploded. Hermione, look at him!” He waved his arms at Potter’s bewildered, lumpy form.  
  
Draco pursed his lips as Granger tried to disguise a giggle as a cough. “I was being cautious,” he snapped out. “I’m not dealing with a snot-nosed brat with a cold.”  
  
“I can see that,” she agreed seriously, her hand still over her mouth. “But, um, Harry? Would you like to take that off?”  
  
After a tense pause, Potter nodded slowly, deftly unbuttoning the coat and shrugging it off. She stuffed it into her ever-present handbag and pulled out four brooms. Potter appeared to be utterly astounded by the simple piece of magic. Draco was reminded suddenly that mini-Potter knew next to nothing about the Wizarding World. And the reason he didn’t…  
  
“Draco,” interrupted Granger, and Draco had never been more grateful to hear her voice. “We need to talk. Alone.”  
  
Nevermind.  
  
“What? Why?” Draco tried to fill his words with as much disdain as would fit. From the way Granger wrinkled her nose, it had worked, but not quite the way he had intended.  
  
“Just come along,” she sighed, snatching up his arm before he could move away. Draco eyed her fingernails with mild horror. “Ron,” she continued, beginning to tow Draco towards the bleachers, “I’m going to talk to Draco. Do not let Harry on a broom.”  
  
“But-”  
  
  
“No.” Granger glared at Weasley over her shoulder. “Demonstrate how to ride it. We’ll only be a moment.”  
  
“But- fine.”  
  
Draco scoffed at the reluctance in his voice. What was he, a werewolf?  
  
Scratch that. Weasley would probably like him better if he was a werewolf if Lupin was anything to go by.  
  
Granger sat and looked expectantly up at him until he joined her reluctantly.  
  
“What is it?” he asked irritably. “More criticism of my personality and ideals?”  
  
Granger snorted, the sound so out of character for her that Draco was bewildered for a second. “Well, yes, that too, but there’s something more important I need to talk to you about.” The smile melted off her lips and she faced Draco seriously. “I’m sure you’ve noticed by now that Harry’s home life is less than ideal.”  
  
Draco swallowed nervously. “So? It doesn’t have anything to do with me. He’s not actually eight, either.”  
  
Granger pursed her lips and sighed. “That’s what McGonagall said too, although she phrased it more nicely. She didn’t want to mention it to you either. Something about ‘building character'. Does she realize how badly Harry was treated? I swear, sometimes… ” She trailed off, a scowl on her face. “And Snape! Threw me out of his classroom as soon as I told him Harry needed help. Can you believe it? Wouldn’t stop going on about how selfish and spoiled he was! Like he’d know.” She huffed.  
  
Draco sniffed and tried to squash down an emotion he was eighty percent sure was guilt. He was a hundred percent sure he didn’t want it. “He’s not exactly a saint, either, now is he?” His stomach was twisting. “You almost can’t blame those muggles for what they did to him,” he continued, rapidly becoming aware that opening his mouth was a horrible, horrible decision, and equally aware he didn’t know how to stop talking. Any time Potter came up, he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “Can y-”  
  
“Draco,” Granger said, and he almost sagged in relief. “Shut up.”  
  
 He froze and glared at her, indignant. “Wha-”  
  
Draco stopped.  
  
Granger’s lips were pressed together so hard they were almost entirely white, and her face was angrier than it had been when she had punched him in third year.  
  
“I understand that you’re incapable of keeping your mouth closed when it comes to Harry,” she began. Her expression was growing darker. Draco determined that keeping his mouth clamped shut was the only way he’d survive this. “But this is an eight-year-old Harry. An abused child. Don’t you think you could stand tone down the loathing hatred just a bit? Or is that too much effort?”  
  
Draco considered this for a moment, then continued not to speak. Fascinating. Weasley was attempting to fly upside down while only holding on to the broom with his right leg. Maybe he’d fall and Granger would have to take him to the Hospital Wing without finishing this conversation.  
  
Granger sighed. “I shouldn’t have bothered. I’d have thought you would at least have some compassion for a hurting child, but…”  
  
Draco’s throat tightened and he swallowed roughly. He coughed. “I get it,” he said. “I’ll… try harder.”  
  
He avoided looking at Granger, whose mouth had dropped open. She visibly recollected herself.  
  
“What?” he scoffed, shifting uncomfortably. “I think all children are miserable, sticky little miscreants. Honestly, the adult Potter’s almost identical-”  
  
“But you’re going to try,” Granger interrupted, and Draco scowled at her halfheartedly. “Thank you.”  
  
  
“Whatever,” he said, warmth creeping up his neck as his eyes darted around the field. “I’m leaving. Weasley’s going to fall off that broom soon and I want to watch.”  
  
Granger laughed. “I’m sure he will,” she said fondly.  
  
  
Weasley did, in fact, fall off the broom. In doing so he nearly squashed Potter, earning himself a lecture from Granger and a smirk from Draco Weasley didn’t seem to appreciate.  
  
“Piss off,” he muttered when he thought Granger had fully shifted her attention to Potter, flipping Draco off for good measure.  
  
Draco raised his eyebrows. “What awful language,” he said, raising his voice just enough for it to reach Granger’s ears. She stiffened. “What if-” he paused dramatically, locking eyes with a paling Weasley for good measure. “Harry had heard you swearing?”  
  
Granger whirled around. “Ron,” she said, her lips pursed, “Is that true? Did you curse?”  
  
The tips of Weasley’s ears reddened. “I-”  
  
 In the next moment, Weasley had a hand on his shoulder steering him firmly towards the bleachers. Draco smiled innocently as Weasley glared back at him, mouthing what was either a death threat or an invitation to tea at four.  
  
Draco turned back around, smirking, only to see Potter staring suspiciously up at him.  
  
“What?” he snapped.  
  
“You swear all the time,” he said accusingly before looking back at his feet.  
  
Draco flushed. “Well, Hermione isn’t in charge of me. So I can say whatever the hell I want.”  
  
Potter seemed skeptical of this but accepted it with a nod. They stand quietly for a moment.  
  
 Draco stuck his hands in his pockets, curiosity welling up in him. He still remembered Potter’s death-defying stunt on the first day of flying lessons. Part of him still couldn’t believe that that had been Potter’s first time flying. He was itching to see if Potter was a natural flyer without Granger nagging about safety.  
  
Brooms weren’t built to be safe.  
  
“Potter,” he said, “Why don’t you fly a bit? Granger won’t mind.”  
  
Potter looked at him warily. He had good reason to, though, Draco could admit reluctantly. “Really?”  
  
Draco inclined his head briefly. “Weasley already showed you how it’s done, didn’t he?”  Potter bit his lip and nodded before slowly mounting the broom. He paused, staring uncertainly at the splintery stick clutched in his small hands.  
  
Draco rocked back and forth on his heels but lost patience quickly. “Go,” he finally hissed impatiently, and Potter startled, shooting upwards like an owl on fire.  
  
“Oh,” he said as he passed Draco. "I'm-"  
  
And Potter was gone.  
  
“Well, fucking hell,” Draco said, gazing upwards. “He’s either brilliant at flying or absolute shit at it.”  
  
A shrill scream followed by angry shouting made him freeze.  
  
Bollocks.  
  
He had forgotten about Granger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The happiest chapter yet!! Draco's really not very good at being nice, though, so we'll see what happens.


	7. Draco Malfoy Can't Stand Hermione Granger, Specifically

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe Potter isn't so bad after all.
> 
> Granger definitely is.

Granger clutched onto his arm tightly enough it would probably bruise later, screaming obscenities and death threats gory enough to rival some of Aunt Bellatrix's old ones on a bad day. He couldn’t bring himself to care. Draco’s eyes felt charmed to follow the little speck in the sky he hoped dearly was Potter.  
  
    “He’s good,” Draco muttered reluctantly. Inexperienced broom riders that shoot up rapidly usually fell after rising up a couple dozen feet. Wrinkling his nose, Draco remembered Longbottom’s blubbering face back in First Year after his memorable, to say the least, tumble. Potter, on the other hand, had managed to keep his balance as he rocketed into the sky. Unless a flock of dementors came by again, he wasn’t falling off anytime soon.  
  
He turned, frowning, at a strangled noise. Granger glared at him, her fingers drumming along the side of her arm. "What the fuck do you think you're doing," she hissed, her tone flat. Her eyes, however, were anything but, and Draco tried to move away subtly. She clamped down onto his arm. "Go," she said, and Draco blinked.  
  
"What?"  
  
She shoved a broom into his hands roughly. "Go. Right now." Granger pointed towards the sky, her eyes locked on him.  
  
"What?" he protested, glancing up at the small speck and back to her. "Why me? You can go."  
  
Granger pursed her lips, unamused. " _You caused this._ Go before I break your legs so badly you'll never be able to fly again."  
  
Draco flinched, absolutely certain she would make good on her threat. His shoulders slumped and he began to mount the broom, a twinge of worry rising up in his gut. What if he couldn't save Potter? He wasn't sure his reputation could take any more of a beating. "I'll get him," he said, more of a reassurance to himself than anything else.  
  
"You'd better," snapped Weasley as he ran closer. "What the fuck were you thinking, doing that without me?" Granger froze, then breathed out slowly. Her head swiveled towards her new target.  
  
 Draco took the opportunity to launch himself into the air.  
  
The last thing he heard before the wind pummeled his ears was, "It was absolutely not _wicked awesome_ , Ron!"  
  
Draco smirked.  
  
Stopping a far distance from the ground, Draco looked for Potter. He wasn't hard to spot for a former Seeker. Draco might have been no match for Potter back in their Quidditch days, but he had held his own against Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw.  
  
Potter was higher up than Draco had thought. The wind was tugging him around roughly, much the same way Draco had carried peacocks around his yard as a child.  
  
"Potter!" he shouted, keeping himself flat against the broom. "Get your arse- I mean, please come over here!" Mini-Potter didn't budge, looking uncannily like a rubber duck in a rippling pond. Draco sighed and rolled his eyes, sitting up as he kept a firm grip on the handle of the broom. "Look, I'm sorry for sending you up here, grab on to me and I'll get you down, yeah?"  
  
Potter didn't answer.  
  
Draco huffed, reaching over to tap Potter carefully and spoke again, mildly irritated. "You're fine, so-"  
  
"It's beautiful," Potter said, his voice so filled with awe Draco's surprise drowned out his irritation with him for interrupting.  
  
"What is?" he said roughly, scanning Potter's beaming face, his heart squirming. Maybe he was coming down with a cold.  
  
Potter, usually reserved, was speaking now with wonder that lit up every corner of his face. "The sky, it's so _blue_. Everything's so tiny."  
  
Mini-Potter's expression reminded Draco of the real Harry's face when he cast a Patronus.  
  
He bit his lip and looked down over Hogwarts. "Yeah, it is," he said, his voice sounding small next to the roaring in their ears.  
  
How often had he flown up here with Potter? Looking back on it now, Draco could admit playing Quidditch with was one of the things he had most enjoyed about his schooling in Hogwarts. While fighting with Potter had always been one of his favorite pastimes, there was something special about hurtling through the air on a broom, breathless, desperately attempting to beat Potter at something. Every loss had left him humiliated and furious, but with a spark of wild joy in his chest.  
  
It was that small spark, fanned by the wildness of the sky and the air all around him that made Draco suggest it.  
  
"Want to fly?" he said, his heart thrumming in his chest. Potter glanced towards him, wide-eyed, his face still glowing and tinged with the slight madness Draco remembered well from their many games together. His face was undoubtedly lined with the same expression.  
  
" _Really?_ " Potter whispered, frowning even as his body tensed up in anticipation.  
  
Draco nodded, itching to fly as far and as fast as he could. "Yeah. Weasley taught you about how to move by balancing your weight, didn't he? You usually go where your eyes look, so watch out." He glanced towards Potter eagerly, practically vibrating, and shot off the moment he nodded.  
  
For a moment he was suspended in the air, weightless. Draco saw two specks on the ground and laughed breathlessly. His stomach lurches just before he falls, making him giddy, and suddenly the wind is screaming past him and whipping his hair into his face hard enough to hurt.  
  
"Keep up!" he shouted, unable to keep the elation out of his voice. Draco jerks up again before they can grow too close to the ground and swoops around the field, occasionally diving and looping. He squinted back at Potter through the air rushing around him and grinned uncontrollably, utterly unbefitting of a Malfoy, at the sight of mini-Potter chasing him determinedly despite being buffeted relentlessly on all sides. Draco soared upwards, delight curling through him. Taunting Potter into chasing after him, Draco raced back around through the Quidditch hoops, nicking the back of Potter's broom as they neatly dodge each other. They wove through the stands together, Potter's thick hair brushing the edge of a railing before Draco led them back up into the clouds again.  
  
Next, Potter took the lead, working through his occasional wobbly swerves and awkward loops stubbornly. Potter flew through a flock of birds, who squawked at him and nipped at his ears before he sped downwards faster than the wind to lose them.  
  
They danced around each other for what felt like hours. Just as Draco began a spiral downwards, sweating lightly, Granger's voice boomed through the sky. "Draco Malfoy! Harry Potter! Come down this instant!"  
  
Draco paused and glared downwards. Trust know-it-all Granger to have a voice-enhancing spell memorized. The feelings of invincibility and glee began to fade. Irritation and exhaustion began to overwhelm him. He considered ignoring Granger and drenching himself back in the endless joy of the sky, but rationality won out.  
  
Sighing, Draco let himself fall. "Potter!" he shouted back, his eyes focused on the ground. He considered what he could say to lighten the amount of screaming he would receive, but all of his options only made him want to fly far up again.  
  
In the next instant, his eyes widened and locked on Potter. His brow wrinkled in concentration, Potter was dropping like a stone through the air, spinning tightly. Draco's breath stuck in his throat as he watched Potter race downwards, nearly as fast as the older Potter could. Draco shook his head, almost wonderingly, and plunged after him.  
  
 "I'm not going to lose again," he whispered, too quietly for even himself to hear the words. Draco pretended he meant it as he tried to quell the joy spilling out of him.  
  
Down and down they went, playing a deadly game of chicken as the ground approached. Draco glanced over to see Potter staring right back at him, his smile mirroring the ferocious happiness Draco felt. They both tuned out Granger's irritating wails in the background, focused on each other, the rapidly growing ground, and the rough feeling of the brooms under their hands. Potter's knuckles were whitening as they sped up, and Draco was sure he would be picking splinters out of his hands for days.  
  
He couldn't bring himself to care.  
  
He laughed again, but the noise was swept away in an instant. Draco could start to pick out the details on Granger and Weasley now and knew their contest was drawing to a close. While some part of him realized that Potter was much, much younger and had less mastery over the broom than Draco did, the rest of his body, his soul, wouldn't give in. At that moment, dying sounded better than giving in first.  
  
Neither of them gave in. Draco could tell apart the blades of grass on the lawn and the freckles on Weasley's face.  
  
His eyes narrowed in determination, Draco carefully began to analyze how much farther he could go before he would spatter across the ground, pulling back at the last instant and bouncing across the grass, landing hard on his shoulder.  
  
Panting, he sat up as fast as he could, scanning the area for Potter. "Who won?" he demanded, noticing Granger first. "It was me, wasn't it?"  
  
Granger glowered. Draco flinched as he realized that he might have made a mistake.  
  
"Who won?" she snarled, and Draco's already racing heart sped up. "Do you realize you were racing an eight-year-old? An eight-year-old that has never been on a broom before?" She clutched her head and shook it side to side. "I should have waited for Ron and let him go after Harry," she muttered, her eyes glazed. "Anything but that. He could have died."  
  
Draco bristled at being placed below Ronald Weasley at anything.  
  
"It was not that dangerous," he began defensively, only to be interrupted by a loud whoop.  
  
"Harry, that was wicked!" Weasley shouted, swinging a dazed Potter around. "You beat Malfoy! As a kid!"  
  
Draco scoffed, wrinkling his nose. "I clearly won!"  
  
"He's ten years younger, he gets the advantage!" said Weasley, glowering at him.  
  
 "He started first," hissed Draco.  
  
"But-"  
  
_"Stop this right now."_  
  
They both froze, turning bit by bit to face Granger.  
  
She didn't wait for them to finish, marching over and plucking Potter out of Weasley's arms, hugging him close. "Are both of you complete idiots?" she said menacingly. "Harry is a child right now, not a star Quidditch player. Brooms are incredibly unsafe in the first place-" Her voice broke as she clutched Potter tighter, her hands trembling.  
  
Draco glanced away.  
  
"No more flying today," Granger said, recomposed, holding up a hand to halt Weasley's indignant protest. She set Potter down again. "Harry, you shouldn't have done that," she said, squeezing his shoulders tightly. "You really are an excellent flier, though. I'm glad you're safe." Ruffling his hair, she turned and glared venomously at the two older boys again.  
  
She began striding back towards the castle, the rest of them trailing behind her.  
  
Weasley groaned. "I didn't even get to fly with Harry." He shot a squinty glare at Draco. "Thanks for that."  
  
"I'm always here to help," he said coolly, then elegantly dodged a punch. After that, he speed-walked the rest of the way back, which was excusable because it was considered a sport in some parts of Europe and not at all cowardly, despite what Weasley was shouting at his back.  
  
The small smile on Draco's face felt permanent as they walked through the large entrance. Of course, it had nothing to do with the way Potter had grinned the whole way back to the castle as he squeezed Granger's hand and apologized.  
  
He just hadn't flown in a while.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been going through and editing the glaring errors in this story. 
> 
> There were so many.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has stuck with this story despite my horrible writing!! Also, thank you to secretiveowl, who pointed out that Hermione punched Draco in THIRD year, not fourth. I do read all of your comments, even if I don't answer them, so if there's a mistake that really makes your teeth itch let me know. I'll fix it before the next chapter is released.


	8. Draco Malfoy Can't Stand Blaise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tea heals wounds much better than time.

The back of Draco’s neck prickled under the weight of the suspicious eyes surrounding him. He ignored them, straightening his back and eating with the confidence a Malfoy Heir should have. A polite cough sounded from next to him, and Draco sniffed as he turned to face its owner.

 

His face dropped into a frown. “Blaise?” They never talked, unless it was to trade insults over pumpkin pasties. They were the only Slytherins in their year that liked them.

 

Today, however, his hands were concerningly pumpkin-pasty-less, and his typically composed expression was equally absent. Blaise paused for a moment, then barged ahead with an almost Gryffindor-like bullishness. “Is it true you played Quidditch with Weasley and Granger today?” He glanced down at the food encased form next to Draco that vaguely resembled mini-Potter. “And him?”

 

All noise at the Slytherin table ceased, aside from the sound of a first year devouring a pumpkin pasty with great vigor. Her friend dug an elbow into her side hastily.

 

She would make an excellent acquaintance, Draco thought absently, desperately searching for a way out of this mess. Well, naturally, he wasn’t desperate. This was merely a nuisance, a pebble- no, a piece of gravel on the side of the road. The seventh years were beginning to purse their lips, glancing between each other in the secret Slytherin way that meant _something’s up_. Although he had seen Granger make the same face on multiple occasions before, so he wasn’t sure how secret it really was.

 

He swallowed roughly, twirling a fork between his fingers. It fell out of his hands and landed with a clang on the floor. Potter flinched and dropped a potato.

 

“Yes,” he blurted out.

 

The students began to mutter, appraising him warily. He controlled the blush threatening to rise up into his cheeks effortlessly, of course, but his pride still stung. Draco took a controlled breath in and released it slowly. He was Draco Malfoy. This was nothing he couldn’t handle. The only way he could go was forwards. Up. Whichever was more motivational.

 

Turning up his nose, he stole Pansy’s fork and began picking at his food again. “How are my private endeavors related to you, might I ask? Is there something wrong with mingling with the Chosen One’s friends?”

 

The air began to buzz, Draco sitting stone-faced at the center of it all. Damn Blaise. He was just standing here, wringing his hands and looking… _innocent-y_. As if he didn’t realize what he had done. Blaise opened his mouth, his face twisting into different forms faster than a boggart at a birthday party.

 

“Hypocrite.”

 

The word cut through the noise like a severing spell, slicing into Draco’s ears. He froze, setting his fork down gently. He suddenly wasn’t hungry anymore- was he losing weight? At this rate, he would end up like his mother.

 

He shook the thought away. It brought back memories best kept out of mind. Next to him, Pansy squeezed his hand. Pressing his lips together, Draco ripped his arm away. The pressure in his chest and the lead in his legs was unmistakeably anger, he was sure of it. How dare they insult him, a Malfoy?

 

“Draco…” whispered Pansy, her wand in her hand. Blaise was screaming in the background.

 

“Well,” said Draco. He stood up with a start, Potter quickly following. “If I stay here any longer I’ll become an avid reader of the Daily Prophet, with all the gossip going around.” He tried for a laugh, but stopped quickly. It sounded off. It took longer than he would have liked to resettle himself.

 

“Ta, Pansy. I’ll see you later,” he said, not looking back.

 

“...Alright,” she said. Draco heard the unmistakable crack of a bone breaking, followed by a shriek from the head table. Blaise was already under a silencing spell, then.

 

Straightening, Draco strode towards the doors with all the confidence a Pureblood Heir was supposed to have. Did have. “Potter, come along,” he said, his voice steady. Potter glanced up at him, his mouth still full, but followed him silently.

 

The halls had never felt this long, and he could have sworn they were warmer. He would tell his- head of house about this. Unacceptable. How could he be expected to live in this poverty? Draco sped up, his footsteps echoing dully. Was his vision always this blurry? Did he need glasses?

 

The entrance to the common room came into view, and his shoulders slumped. He shook off the weakness instantaneously. Draco exhaled sharply and all but ran in, only holding the door open long enough for Potter to slip in.

 

“My room’s this way,” he said. His voice lacked its usual edge, but it wasn’t important enough to correct. Draco sped up the stairs, Potter on his heels.

 

Once in his room, Draco slammed the door shut, sending Potter tumbling in after him. Flopping face down on the bed, he heard Potter rustling around in the background. He couldn't bring himself to care about what dastardly deeds he was up to, which was unusual.

 

Draco closed his eyes and relished in the near-suffocation the multitude of pillows underneath him provided. The tightness in his chest grew, and he burrowed further into the sheets.

 

What had he done wrong? It was either watch Potter or be expelled. They should have realized that themselves. Were they idiots? He considered this, then sighed, blowing hot air into his face. Of course they were. That should have been obvious from the start. He was the smartest in Slytherin, constantly competing for the top spot in their grade with Granger and two Ravenclaws with utterly forgettable faces.

 

He had expected better of Blaise, though. Just a little better, not much. They weren’t friends, but they had known each other for a long time. Pansy, too.

 

The pillow was uncomfortably damp by the time Draco sat up, already combing through his hair. “Potter?” he said, his voice scratchy. He coughed, then tried again. “Potter, where are you?”

 

“Here,” came from next to him. Draco squinted over the side of the bed through puffy eyes to see Potter seated on the floor, holding two steaming cups. Draco blinked and peered down again.

 

“Is that tea?”

 

Potter nodded.

 

Draco paused and glanced around the room. “But there’s no kitchen or kettle in here. Where did you-” He jumped off the bed, narrowly missing Potter. “Tell me that’s not a fire in my bathroom sink.”

 

Potter bit his lip. “I did this at the park once. It’s okay.”

 

Draco ignored him, clutching his head. “That’s my fifty galleon cauldron,” he moaned. “You used my best cauldron to brew tea.” He spun towards Potter again, rubbing at his crusty cheeks. “Where did you get tea leaves from?”

 

Potter hesitated, then slowly drew a handful of grubby tea leaves out of his grubby pocket with his grubby hands. “They should still be fine-”

 

Draco’s legs gave out from sheer shock. His head made an audible thump as he set it against his bedpost. “I’m going insane,” he said calmly. Potter watched him closely, still balancing the two brimming cups, which he now recognized as his and Blaise’s toothbrush holders. Silence fell over the room, with Draco staring emptily at the steam billowing from the mugs. “Hmm,” he said, more to make a sound than to say anything. “You can’t drink tea without biscuits. Not proper tea, anyways.”

 

Potter looked down, his knuckles white as he clutched the cups. He made to stand up. “Sor-”

 

“Which is why,” Draco continued, examining the poster of Celestina Warbeck Pansy had stuck up on the wall as a joke back in fourth year that had refused to come down since with extreme interest, “We’re going to steal Blaise’s. I know for a fact he can’t put up a locking charm for shite.”

 

Potter’s face lit up, and Draco turned away uncomfortably to rummage through his roommates’ trunk. Seeking his approval was new for Potter, and Draco wasn’t sure how to handle it.

 

The tea tasted faintly of the mashed potatoes from dinner, meshing oddly with the high-class biscuits with a name spelled out in so many elegant swirls neither of them could read it. Still, the unsettling throbbing under his skin faded a little every time he mocked Potter’s pronunciation of the French labels decorating every item Blaise owned, and eventually, it disappeared altogether, replaced by a warm feeling rising up from his toes.

 

“No, _no_ , you’ve got to say it more dramatically, like this,” Draco was saying, swinging his arms up to illustrate his point, when the door clicked open.

 

“Draco? Are you feeling better? I brought-” Pansy stopped, gaping at him. They stared at each other, frozen. Liquid sloshed over the edge of his cup and dripped onto the floor.

 

“Tea?” Draco offered weakly, stretching out the chipped mug in his hand. Pansy remained still, taking in the room: of Draco, his tie loosened and his shirt unbuttoned; Potter, dressed in one of Blaise’s old uniforms and drenched in the worst combination of Blaise’s colognes they could think of; the pronunciation spell still rattling off French words in a smooth accent. She promptly spun around and left the room.

 

“Shit,” Draco said, canceling the spell and brushing the crumbs off of his clothes. He glared at Potter as he redid his buttons. “This is entirely your fault.”

 

Potter wrinkled his nose and sneezed. “You’re the one who said that a wizard who can’t speak French is as worthless as a Flobbyworm.”

 

Draco scowled, tossing objects back into Blaise’s trunk at random. “Shut up. And it’s a _Flobberworm_.”

 

“What’s a Flobberworm? Your hairstyle?” Pansy strode in again, the air around her crowded with enchanted teacups and pastries. Several distressed house elves trailed behind her, clutching at their tea towels. She shooed them away airily.

 

Draco’s brows knit together. “Pansy, what are you doing?”

 

With a careless wave of her hand, Pansy laid out her entire tea set on the top of Blaise’s sheets. Potter’s eyes sparkled far too much as he watched. “Cheering you up, of course. Can you imagine the look on Zambini’s face when he comes in and sees his bed covered in crumbs?” Her eyes darted over to Potter, who had approached the bed and was now attempting to gingerly stroke the teapot. “I just didn’t expect him to be part of the plan.”

 

“I didn’t either,” Draco grumbled, trying to wrangle his hair back into submission. “He’s entirely too nosy.”

 

Pansy barked a laugh. “I’m sure.” She frowned at their makeshift teacups. “Are you sure this is hygienic? What if you catch a cold and die?”

 

Smirking, Draco tilted his head towards the bathroom. “Take a look at the sink. Blaise is going to throw a fit.”

 

Her face whitened as she saw the flames. “What on earth- Draco, you didn’t think to put them out?” Her wand already out, Pansy doused every inch of the bathroom in a frankly over the top _Aguamenti_ , in Draco’s opinion. A lemon tart fell out of Potter’s mouth.

 

Draco glowered. “I’m not an idiot. The fire was obviously contained.”

 

Pansy pinched her nose. “That wasn’t a magical fire, Draco.” She jabbed a finger at the awestruck boy seated on the bed. “How did he light a fire on his own? Care to clarify?”

 

Draco wasn’t entirely sure how Potter had done it either, but he’d be a Squib before he admitted that to Pansy. “Does it matter? He’s not burnt, is he?”

 

She scoffed, biting into a biscuit with a snap. “McGonagall’s fucking insane if she thinks Potter’s going to come out of this alive.” Draco felt the oddest sense of deja vu. Never would he have thought that Pansy and Granger would have had something in common.

 

Pansy stiffened, her mouth full of crumbs. “Oh fuck,” she said, her words garbled. “You can’t swear in front of kids, right?” Potter blinked up at her, guileless. She examined him suspiciously. “Dammit, now I feel bad.”

 

Draco snorted. “He doesn’t care. I would’ve been ratted out ages ago.”

 

“He swears a lot,” Potter chimed in unnecessarily.

 

Pansy eyed them worriedly. “I’m legitimately concerned he won’t survive this.”

 

“I’ll be okay,” Potter said, licking a cake as he watched them warily. “He’s not as bad as… other people.”

 

Peering around Potter’s bird's nest, Pansy frowned at him meaningfully. Either Draco would tell her what was going on, or she was going to sock him. Despite the knowledge of all the times she had made good on that promise, Draco still avoided her eyes. That wasn’t a subject he was ready to broach.

 

“See?” he said, perhaps a tad too loud. “Potter’s fine. Children aren’t that fragile.”

 

Pansy huffed, then smacked him upside the head. “Idiot.”

 

Draco spluttered, scowling at her despite feeling grateful. She would let it go for now. Although…

 

“Damn it, _Pansy,_ that fucking hurt!”

 

The tension never faded from Potter’s shoulders, but some of the darkness in his eyes did. Draco suspected he was entirely too pleased about that for a Malfoy Heir.

 

Surprisingly, that didn't make him feel any worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm disgustingly American, so I've only ever used tea bags. Based off of my two minutes of research, I think it's feasible Harry could've made tea like this, but if I'm wrong Harry's secretly proficient at wandless magic. 
> 
> That aside, Blaise gets another chance at the spotlight!! And Pansy's back!!


End file.
